


Fool For You

by zarrysdick



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Zayn, Switching, they're both just a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarrysdick/pseuds/zarrysdick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't say anything, and neither did Zayn. They just looked at each other as the grip Zayn had on the jug tightened, the condensation suddenly becoming a source of anxiety as he feared it slipping from his hands. Warm amber met sharp, curious green, the green that had been the exact shade of the hue that had settled over Zayn's life those first two years. A green that, somehow, was so unnerving, that Zayn forgot the words he had said over and over again, every day, six days a week, for the last four years.</p><p>Or an AU where Zayn is a server at an exclusive Californian resort, Harry has too much money to know what to do with, and they both don't know how to keep their hearts out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I need you and I hate it

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is my first work, and while I'm spectacularly nervous to post this for anyone to be able to read, I'm also very excited. I have been reading fic for ages, and I've had this idea in my head for a while now, so I said 'fuck it' to my reservations and decided that there's hardly anything to lose.
> 
> Thank you endlessly to those who continue to inspire and help me every day, as well as every person who listened to me whine and cry about how difficult it is to write fic. You mean the entire world to me.
> 
> Also, this work has been thoroughly beta'd, so all of the mistakes are my own. 
> 
> The characters of this work are fictional, and while based off of real individuals bear no reflection of the actual individuals themselves.

The sound of a kitchen was something that Zayn coveted. The hustle and bustle of everyone trying to get a different task done all at once was something that was always comforting to him, something that he always found solace in. The constant running of faucets, the raucous sounds of various pots and pans being placed heavily on the burners of the stoves or brandished into a pool of soapy water, were all the soundtrack to the job that Zayn hadn't even realized he wanted. They were the notes of a song that weaved it's way throughout his entire day, a song that, eventually, Zayn started to love more than hate. 

It was with this melody of loud voices shouting out the numbers of finished orders mingled with the swish of oversized dishtowels and the squeak of non-slip shoes that became the background music for Zayn, the sound that played in the movie of his life, that was the track chosen for his opening scene. He loved it. 

'Malik! You realize that we have customers, don't you? You can't just spend the entire shift hiding behind that sink! Get out there and do your job!' 

The moment he heard his name, the music seemed to fade away, the sounds of everything else in the kitchen suddenly hard to discern, like he was sucked into a vacuum, a vortex that was created by the shrill voice that was demanding his attention. His soapy hands emerged from the water in which he had been scrubbing dish after dirty dish, his fingers well on their way to resembling prunes. He finds a tattered towel to dry his hands, hands that he has always been proud of. Hands that managed to carry a tray full of drinks even on his worst days, hands capable of fixing an engine or re-grouting the shower on the best. 

He turns to Carla once he's done, eyes the color of warm amber flickering around the kitchen, trying to find the source of the nagging that had been directed at him. But he came up short; the thin, severe, five feet of intimidating woman having disappeared, the click of her Louboutins echoing into the massive hall that lead out to the main dining room of the restaurant. 

Zayn's only option was to heave a deep sigh and obey, and to inspect the crispness of his white uniform, a uniform which he had learned to love just like the constant buzz that was always happening within the confines of this large, stainless steel haven he had began to feel more connected to than his own home. He re-tied his apron around his waist, made sure he looked decent enough to earn a few smiles from whoever Jonas, the host, decided to seat in his section. His fingers ran tediously through his hair, the length starting to annoy him, and washed his hands, twice, for good measure. The level of cleanliness expected from Carla, and not to mention the owner, was something that Zayn wholeheartedly agreed with. No one wanted contaminated food; or, to a less dramatic degree, food that tasted like expensive hair paste. 

But even as Zayn prepared himself to continue his shift, he looked back longingly at the sink in which he had just stationed himself, guilt sinking into his stomach like a ton of lead, making him feel like he was unable to stand, like it would somehow dissolve in the acid and make it's way back up his throat and somehow onto Carla's pristine - so clean you can see your reflection in them - floors. He had promised he would cover for Liam while he was out for an hour - Carla wouldn't grant time off for something she deemed 'personal', or in other words, for him to go to the dentist. But the only time he had with working two jobs was during one of those shifts, and while Zayn had suggested he took time out of his second, Liam insisted that the office was closed for hours by the time his shift ended, and Zayn felt responsible, seeing that this bus boy gig Liam had was granted to him by Zayn's recommendation in the first place. So he promised to cover for him so Liam could get a fill-in, so that, hopefully, he was able to keep his job and not alert Carla in any way. But he had failed, having drawn attention to himself, the back of his inked neck was a dead giveaway to Carla, and he knew she would hang him from the rafters by his ears if she caught him in the kitchen for any other reason beside getting his orders. 

So with a last glance at his watch and a silent prayer that Liam returned in time, Zayn walked out of the kitchen and made his way into the main dining room.

Once he was out of the treacherous, guilt-filled vacuum that he had been momentarily trapped in by Carla, he let the new, but somehow familiar, noises of the restaurant around him guide his temperament back to it's usual, quiet ease. Because Zayn remembered with a suddenness that should have been overwhelming, but now, welcomed, that he loved his job. He loved working in a place like this one, with a staff that cared more than they should, with loyal customers that came here not only for the food, but for the atmosphere that the staff provided for them, the feeling of home that they gave even when they were miles away. So he started his shift, walking out into the main dining hall like it was his stage, and plastered on a smile that was more genuine than not, and greeted his first table with the kind of warmth reserved for family members or close friends. He continued in this rhythm for the rest of the evening, earning large tips and firm handshakes and cheek kisses from the customers that adored their dark-haired waiter that seemed to know what they wanted before they did. It was just like any other night. 

*

Zayn had been working at Pelican Hill Resort for the last four years, a place that was the epitome of wealth and extravagance, right in the heart of Orange County. California's beautiful weather, as well as their population that was all but bursting with the need and desire to be exclusive, was the stomping ground for the people who found themselves lucky enough to travel there, lucky enough to reside within perimeter of a place so openly admired. 

The resort is set on over 500 acres of the Newport Coast, a prime location at any time of the year. The luxury of the golf resort is something that causes people to go green with envy at the mere mention of the name, at the sight of another car winding up the long drive that leads to it's entrance. Zayn remembered when he was applying and he had decided to search the place, how it talked of it's 'breezily elegant bungalow rooms' and their suites with private terraces and granite wet bars, practically bleeding wealth and new money from the few cracks that had made their way into the Italian tile that line most of the floors. And not just anyone could stay in these lavish places, in the villas that have housed celebrity after celebrity; not just anyone's kids could swim alongside children who have trust funds larger than Zayn will probably earn in his entire lifetime. No, they don't allow just anyone in, which of course, makes the demand to stay much more grand. 

And while Newport Beach may be home to some of the most luxurious homes in Southern California, the communities of Pelican Hill are some of the most luxurious in Newport Beach. Zayn has heard that most of the homes in this community have views of the Pacific Ocean, Catalina Island, City Night Lights, Newport Bay, Newport Harbor and various golf courses. Over time, he has also come to learn that there are three different neighborhoods in accordance to the views that they possess, deeming each one either a golf course view home, ocean view home, or a coastline view home. Rarely do the residents dine somewhere besides the best of the best at Pelican Hill Resort, or down Pacific Coast Highway to more five star eateries, so Zayn has learned to make a note of them, to remember them, to forge relationships in order to make all of them feel welcome.

But the downfall to working at a resort like this, with it's accommodating staff and their demanding schedules, the perks and the benefits that come with a steady job, was having to be on the outside looking in. 

There had always been a part of Zayn, humble, soft-spoken Zayn, that had trouble remaining neutral to the wealth that was flaunted around him. He had desired it, had yearned for it in a way that was surely detrimental to his health, and being in such close proximity to it, but not really belonging, once had a way of making him feel like he was going to go off the deep end, like he was going to be unhinged and go on a spending spree just to make it seem like he could keep up with all of these people who probably wouldn't even care in the end. The first two years were the hardest, when Zayn would return home to his two bedroom apartment, the one with the four roommates who were all scraping their money together to get the rent paid -it was no easy feat living in one of the most desired areas in the world, with the beach as their backyard - but each moment of hard work was worth it when Zayn could feel the sand between his toes, the salty air licking against his bare skin. It was all worth it if he could sit on his ratty balcony every night and watch the sun disappear behind the water, the colors scattering across the surface of the ocean, nature becoming it's own post-impressionist right before Zayn's eyes. He couldn't imagine himself being any where else. And the days where all he could see was green, whether it be the rolling hills of the golf courses or the hue of the bills he was always handed with leisure, he remembered to make sure he himself remained humble, and let things that were green stay that way. He refused to become envious for too long, to let his pretty shade of brown be tainted by the green of jealousy. 

*

The next day started like any other. Zayn's position was one that he felt was secure, solid, iron-locked by his warm persona and his resilient work ethic, and while he was quietly confident that there was no way they would ever let him go before he was ready, he worked every day like it could be his last. He didn't have the ability to be cocky when he had school loans to pay off, loans that he shouldn't have taken in the first place, he realized -- he was twenty four, with a half finished english degree that was sure to lead him nowhere in the first place. He didn't have time to get caught up in own self-assurdness, so instead, he went through the motions of his job, welcoming each and every person to the Coliseum Pool & Grille. He began by asking whether they wanted to dine in the main hall, or on the heated terrace that overlooked the infinity Coliseum pool, the pool that was a perfect circle, over 100 feet in diameter, over a million mosaic tiles laid by hand glittering beneath the surface and making it look like a bit of paradise. The day seemed to go as every other, of course, until, it didn't. 

*

It started with him covering a shift. One of his coworkers, Mary, had told him she had an emergency, that her daughter needed to be picked up from day care because her ex was caught up, and that she would return the favor for him if he ever needed it. 

'Please, Z, I really need you on this one. You know I would never ask if it wasn't important, and I really need to get Bella, so --,'

But Zayn didn't give her a chance to finish speaking before he was interrupting, 'Mary, don't worry about it, alright? I've got it. Just go pick her up, okay? I've got everything covered here. Tell her I said hello, yeah?'

Mary's gratitude was apparent in each line of her round face as she broke into a wide grin, one that seemed to be forged out of relief. She captured him in a hug, and he returned it, before pulling back and speaking once more, 'Don't forget to lock up behind you, okay?' He said with a soft smile, and she kissed both of his cheeks then, thanking him all the while, before she was taking off, and soon, she was out of sight. 

Zayn's smile slipped from his countenance shortly after, though, as he sat down on one of the benches of the employee locker room.

He hated working night shifts -- he hated doubling up, after being on his feet for eight hours, and having to plaster a smile to his face after the muscles in his cheeks were properly exhausted. He didn't know the staff that worked at night, apart from Mary, obviously, and Carla - who, honestly, seemed to be here every hour of every day - and he felt completely out of his element. He knew that his kindness and his penitence to extend a helping hand was something of a detriment, but there was nothing Zayn could really do now besides work. He didn't want to get Mary in trouble, and now, both of their jobs were on the line if Zayn screwed this up. So, with the hope of avoiding running into one of his co-workers finishing their shifts, and hoping to avoid small talk at all costs, he leaves the locker room, his dark hair threatening to wilt and his smile no longer one of a thousand watts, but one that was half extinguished. 

The shift passed in a slow blur, the pace of molasses on a warm day, but Zayn tried to see the benefits of working on a Saturday night, when he could be out with his roommates, getting shit-faced in a club in Laguna Beach, sand between his toes and salt against his skin, the warmth of the setting sun disappearing and instead being replaced by the cool breezes that rolled off the surface of the ocean. The residents of the homes on the Hill, as well as the guests at the resort, seemed to be more inclined to order drinks -- couples were on dates, and hardly anyone was splashing around in the pool, and there was an entirely different atmosphere. Zayn handled Mary's tables well, made sure to be just as accommodating to her regulars as she could, thanking them for their decision to come to the Coliseum when the usually preferred Andrea was surely as much of an option as they. Andrea, with their pompous waiters and their tiny plates of overpriced Italian cuisine, a place that, even amongst wealth, felt they were the best of the best. He handles each table as if he would handle his own, earning generous tips from people he had never even served before, as well as genuine thanks and gratitude for his service. He felt like he was floating, buoyant due to the appreciation he was receiving all around. 

And finally, after sixteen hours of working, and surefire blisters on his feet, Zayn was glad to be reminded so kindly by one of the bus boys, that tomorrow was Sunday, and also, Zayn's only day off. He felt even better, his mind on fast forward as he began to let the work day percolate away, the ache in his bones momentarily dulling as he thought of all of the things the next day could hold, as well as the rest of his night. It was only half past ten, and he was sure Nathan, one of his roommates, would be up to smoke a bowl and go down to the beach, maybe round up some other friends for a bonfire that could go well into the night, when he is pulled out of his fantasy by none other than the very last person he wished to see. 

Carla. And she looked furious. 

'Where do you think you're going?'

The very shrillness of her voice was enough to make Zayn want to curl in on himself, the immediate intimidation he felt slightly tinted in shame -- she was a tiny, tiny woman, with a bun so tight and not a hair out of place, that Zayn was surprised her inner wrath hadn't made even her bone-straight hair curl. 

'I was just, um - I was headed to the locker room, since we're closing, and --,' but he was interrupted before he could even finish.

'Are you fucking serious, Malik? You're just 'headed to the locker room' while we have a resident out on the terrace? Have you completely lost your mind?'

Her tone was so cold that it made goosebumps rise on his skin, and before he could to think of something to say, any response at all, she was speaking again, her voice lowered to an octave that Zayn wasn't sure she had been capable of. 

'You're to see to it that Mr. Styles is served with the utmost attention and patience, Malik. You're not to go anywhere, nor do anything, until he has finished his meal. You're to clean up after him, seeing as everyone else but you and Dubray have left for the night. Is that clear?' 

Zayn didn't even have the vocal ability to respond, he was so angry, so he just nodded, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. She didn't even wait to make sure he understood before she was off, the sound of her heels clicking along the tiled foyer. Carla's Mercedes was already waiting at the Valet, the door being opened and closed for her with perfect precision, before her driver was tearing up the driveway at an alarming speed and disappearing into the night. 

*

Zayn had taken to pacing in the kitchen, trying to calm his nerves in the few moments that he had before he had to go out and serve yet another resident. He was furious, his skin warm to the touch from the anger that was coursing alongside the blood in his veins, the lividity that had become an entity of it's own weighing on him so heavily he felt like he was going to be crushed by it at any moment. This is really what he gets for being courteous? For covering someone's shift and trying to somehow make their lives easier while his wasn't easy in any way, shape, or form? How did he get stuck with the customer that was here past closing? It was beyond him, the answer to all of these questions, and he knew time was of the essence, and it was all but slipping away from him as he finally headed out onto the terrace, on auto-pilot, his hand swiping a sweating water pitcher from a nearby cart before he headed over to the only occupied table. 

He approached the table that was now only lit by the pool, ominous, flickering lights having now spilled across the terrace, the sun having long disappeared and the sky an inky, unnerving black as the moon and the stars hid behind the clouds no longer visible. He couldn't see the resident's face, not yet, as he approached -- only long, brown hair that curled against an ivory column of a neck, and a broad, broad back that seemed to have been the cause for the stretched and worn sweater that clung to the man's shoulders. The squeak of Zayn's shoes must have sounded his arrival moreso than usual, since there were no nearby conversations or splashing in the pool to mask it, because before he could arrive and say his usual, scripted introduction, how he's Zayn and he would be their server this evening, the body before him was shifting, a neck turning, and eyes settled on Zayn as he finally reached the table. 

He didn't say anything, and neither did Zayn. They just looked at each other as the grip Zayn had on the jug tightened, the condensation suddenly becoming a source of anxiety as he feared it slipping from his hands. Warm amber met sharp, curious green, the green that had been the exact shade of the hue that had settled over Zayn's life those first two years. A green that, somehow, was so unnerving, that Zayn forgot the words he had said over and over again, every day, six days a week, for the last four years. 

'Um, I, um. Okay, sorry, uh - I'm Zayn. Welcome to the Coliseum, Mr. Styles. I'll be your server this evening.'

The smile that warmed the icy features of Mr. Styles' countenance, that was open and so, so genuine, made all of the residing anger within Zayn ebb away, and for a reason unbeknownst to him, he had completely forgotten his earlier, flaming lividity. Zayn had a moment of clarity, and he scrambled to rattle off the last, yet most important, line of his opening dialogue. 

'Is there anything I can get for you?'

Mr. Styles only smiled again, white, annoyingly straight teeth on full display before he shakes his head, eyes still settled unwaveringly on Zayn before he spoke for the first time. 

'Don't call me Mr. Styles, I hate that. I hate that so much. I would go as far to say as Mr. Styles is my father, but I don't have any excuse. Just call me Harry.'

Zayn felt like he was bursting at the seams with everything he wanted to say. It was against protocol to call a resident or a guest by anything other than sir, ma'am, miss, mister, or missus, and Zayn experienced the onslaught of defiance as Mr. Styles, Harry, laid out his request. Because, unfortunately for Zayn, it was also against protocol to not do something that is asked of you at Pelican Hill, and Harry had really caused quite a conflict in Zayn’s mind. But he soon decided, as time started ticking away and Zayn hadn't said a word, that he could do this. Carla wasn't breathing down his neck, watching his every move and hanging onto his every word, so he could do this. He could.

'Alright. Harry, then.' 

Zayn stapled the statement with a genuine smile, the smile that earns him almost, if not all, of his tips. 

Harry's returning one, however, made Zayn want to take off down the tiled halls and go straight to his locker, for his wallet, to leave Harry a tip instead. He was young, Zayn could tell, couldn't be older than thirty, and Zayn realized that he himself would hate to be called 'Mr. Malik' when he just wanted to get a bite to eat on a Saturday night. He also realized there must be a reason Harry came out at this time, knowing that they would be closing, and that no one else would be here. Zayn's curiosity as to why was starting to eat away at him.

'As for what I'll have,' Harry began, those green eyes sweeping across the menu just as they had swept across Zayn, and his voice, slower than the molasses that had been on the forefront of Zayn's mind just moments ago, 'I'll take some of that water,' He nodded pointedly at the jug still gripped tightly in Zayn's hand, 'And an Iced Tea. For my meal, just tell Jean I'll have the usual. He'll know what you mean.' 

Zayn startled as he heard Harry casually mention the chef's name, the implicit meaning behind being on a first name basis showing Zayn his importance and familiarity with the Grill. It was as unsettling as the color of Harry's eyes, to know the power in which he could display with just a few words, a dozen syllables at the very least. With an unsteady hand, a hand that had been sure and steady for the last four years, Zayn poured water to the very brim of Harry's glass, before he disappeared with a sharp nod and a quickened pace, blisters be damned. 

Once he made it back to the kitchen, and repeated Harry's words verbatim to Chef Dubray, Zayn rested against the counter, and wiped his hands down his face, fingers scratching impatiently at his neat beard. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was content with placing blame on the fact that he had been working sixteen hours, but he couldn't, he knew that he couldn't. Because he had served plenty of attractive residents and guests before, had been hit on numerous times by the same individuals. And now, suddenly, at the sight of this particular resident, Harry, who probably lived in one of the coastline view homes that housed everyone under thirty and already nearing a mid-life crisis, had Zayn feeling more off-step than he had in years. 

As Zayn was questioning his behavior and his affinity for green, green, green, he realized with a jolt that he was meant to be taking Harry his Iced Tea, which was now sweating in it's glass for having sat for too long. With haste, Zayn poured the contents down the drain, the smell of freshly brewed tea and the sound of ice against metal filling the basin as he did so. He hurried to make the drink once more with a new, fresh glass, and hurried back out onto the terrace, intent on providing Harry with the service that Carla had all but threatened him to.

He tried, tried so hard to maintain his composure as he set the glass down atop the coaster, but Harry had settled his gaze back on him. He hated this, hated the attentiveness which seemed to roll of of Harry like the breeze rolled off the coast; he wasn't used to being given this kind of unwavering attention from a resident, someone who usually found the blank screen of an iPhone more interesting than Zayn as a whole. But his composure was slipping as the third hand on Zayn's watch ticked by, the only sound for seemingly miles. Yet again was he sucked into the vortex of quiet, where only one sound took center stage. Right now, to Zayn's dismay, the sound was the one following each puff of breath that left Harry's pink lips. 

'Why don't you sit down?' 

Zayn was glad that the glass was no longer in his hand, sure that he would have dropped it at such an inappropriate suggestion. 

'What, I - Excuse me?' He frowned, obviously not sure how to respond to such a ridiculous request. 

Harry just kept smiling though, like he knew something Zayn didn't as he gestured for Zayn to sit down in the chair opposite him. 

'Why don't you sit down?' Harry repeated. 'I could really use the company, and I know my food won't be ready for quite a while. Mary is usually my companion, sits with me while I wait since I'm usually the last person here. I understand if you don't want to, you don't know me at all. But like I said, I would really enjoy it if you joined me.'

Harry's expression was so genuine, so open and earnest, that Zayn wasn't sure why he was hesitating. Maybe it was the mindset that he had instilled in himself all of these years; he wasn't a part of this world, he couldn't afford to dine here without the employee discount or the leftovers they practically had to take off of the Resort's hands so that precious ingredients wouldn't be thrown out. He didn't belong, didn't deserve to sit across from Harry and keep him company, this man who could probably eat here every day for the rest of his life and still afford to take his family out on his yacht on the harbor down the Highway, who could buy another 7 Series or another S Class to sit and gather dust in his nine car garage. This wasn't his world, and he knew that if he sat down across from Harry, if he tried to be a part of it for even a moment, his heart would ache in a way that could only be characterized as pathetic.

But he also knew that Carla would skin him alive if he did anything to upset the residents, so he goes against everything in him that's telling him to stop, to politely decline and go back to the kitchen, to wait patiently until Dubray is done preparing Harry's food, and lowered himself to the seat across from Harry.

As he did, Harry smiled like he had won.

*

Zayn had convinced Mary to swap shifts with him. Permanently. 

Zayn now worked every Saturday night, well past closing time. He had become close with the rest of the evening staff, had managed to forge his own inside jokes with a few of the waitresses and the hosts, his connection with them growing each and every time they spent a shift together. 

Carla had been pleased with him for the past few months, meaning that she only yelled at him once or twice during a shift. 

Saturdays had become a part of his routine now; cleaning up the rest of the terrace, making sure everything was pristine and up to standard before Harry arrived. 

He sat at the same table every Saturday evening, after everyone besides Dubray and Zayn had left for the evening. He always ordered the same thing, Iced Tea and a pasta dish that wasn't on the menu. Sometimes he liked to mix things up, to add lemon to his drink or even go for a nice Raspberry Tea instead. But his routine was all the same. Zayn would greet him, they would exchange smiles, and when Zayn went to get his drink, Dubray would start on his order. It shouldn't have been anything to write home about. 

And it wasn't. He would never dare write home about Harry; but he couldn't help but want to, to want to have it all out before him on paper, so it all could have felt less like a dream. He wanted everyone to know what he felt, wanted to scream it from the top of the Hill so all of the residents could hear it from their Tuscan style balconies, the guests hearing his cries all the way in their four bedroom Villas. 

Because keeping Harry company had suddenly become the only thing that Zayn found himself looking forward to. Gone were the listless daydreams about feeling the sand between his toes and the ocean breeze in his hair, replaced by the desire to sit so long in one of the cushioned chairs that his ass started to go numb. It was often the thought of Harry, with his expensive, outlandish wardrobe choices and curly hair, his deep, slow voice and his large, ring-clad hands that got Zayn through those particularly dull shifts. 

So it's clear to see why Zayn nearly had a meltdown when Harry didn't come in on the third Saturday in May. 

'Hey, D, do you know where Harry is? Like, did he say why he wasn’t coming in tonight?'

Zayn had tried to keep his voice casual, but he was sure that it was strained, if not as shrill as Carla's on a particularly busy evening at the Coliseum. 

Dubray, wearily cleaning up his station, looked up at Zayn, seemingly dubious to respond, but deciding at last to comply anyway. 

'I don't know, Zayn. He might have had something else to do, you know? He can't always be here. Just be glad we get to go home on time for once.'

Zayn just nodded, not trusting his voice to reply. He didn't know why it was bothering him so much that Harry hadn't shown, but ever since February, Harry had shown up without fail. He didn't think it characteristic of him to not warn them of his absence, and it was starting to cause Zayn's anxiety to reach a peak that it hadn't since he was first starting at the Resort. He left the kitchen to clear off the Iced Tea that he had already set up on he and Harry's usual table, and tried to pretend that his disappointment at Harry's lack of attendance was due to worry. He entered the kitchen and cleaned the glass, drying it and all, before placing it with all of the other clean dishes. He wasn't coming in tomorrow, so it didn't really matter, but he liked to help the morning crew out anyway. 

He said goodbye to Dubray, who just waved with a half smile, a smile that is so all-knowing it’s only effect making Zayn feel transparent, and he finally left the kitchen for the evening. 

He looked at his watch, and realized that right about now, he would be telling Harry about his week, what he got up to with his roommates while he wasn't working. Zayn had found himself a lot more busy than usual the last few months, getting himself into situations that he would have never even dreamed of, hoping to give Harry something interesting to associate with him, each story grander than the last. Zayn was sure that his attempt to one up himself was apparent, but Harry always listened, always sat there with his hand tucked under his chin, the phone Zayn wasn't even sure he had hidden and out of sight as he paid complete and utter attention to Zayn. The sensation of it all was addicting. He loved how someone who was accomplished enough to own a house on an acre of land on some of the most expensive real estate in the world wanted to hear about his life, about his friends and their reckless adventures that took place along the sandy strip of coast that they both called home. He found himself doing things just so he could tell Harry about it, so he could see Harry's face light up with amusement, or preferably, with concern. Because these once a week, hour long, platonic trysts that they continued to partake in, weren't just selfish indulgences of Harry's. No, they were selfish on Zayn's part too, selfish because he loved telling a tale of near death, telling Harry something so wild that he couldn't help but let his green eyes widen to saucers, words of concern for Zayn's safety following soon after. Because he craved that, craved Harry caring about him, wanted him to feel something, anything, resembling that of an actual connection or friendship, or even more, because that's what Zayn felt for Harry. He felt everything, from quiet admiration to borderline obsession, a kind of affection that he didn't ever see himself having for someone so quickly. 

Zayn also knew, unfortunately, that it was against every rule in the book to be involved with someone who resided in the sprawling estates on the Hill's land, and even more so to congregate with guests or even friends of guests. There was a strict code about it, rule upon rule of maintaining professionalism at any cost. If Carla, or any of the higher ups even caught a whiff of something of the sort happening with one of the guests and the Resort's employees, they were to be let go without question. There was a no nonsense policy that did not tolerate even a toe over the line. A touch couldn't linger, a smile couldn't be too warm, a hand too heavy. They had to be discreet, and careful, to be sure their polite, accommodating manner wasn't taken out of context. 

 

And maybe he should feel worse -- given the circumstances -- about how he feels for Harry. How he fiends for every ounce of attention he can get from him, how he desires, above all else, to be the one he pays the most attention. But he doesn't. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt, or remorse, for how he behaves under Harry's gaze, because, after all, it's what Harry wants, and Carla, as she so strongly reminded him on that fateful February evening, he was to make sure that each and every one of Harry's request was fulfilled. What was the harm in fulfilling some of his own desires in the process?

*

Zayn’s washing his hands, lathering his fingers in soap, when it happens.

The sound of the door opening really should have been able to tip him off, warn him that he wasn’t alone, but the flow of the water and the sound it made as it hit the basin was the only thing Zayn paid attention to alongside his thoughts. His mind wasn’t processing anything else, instead deciding to focus on a task so mundane that Zayn was sure he could do it in his sleep.

So, of course, he nearly faints when he feels the warmth of a touch pressing into his shoulder, his heart flaring up and then giving out like a spent bulb at the unexpected contact. He startles so visibly that he can feel the heat of embarrassment coloring his skin, reddening the apples of his cheeks, before he even manages to look up into the mirror. 

When he does, he can’t speak, shock pacifying him in a way he hadn’t believed possible.

‘Hi.’ 

His voice is so low, so deep, that Zayn has to close his eyes, to will away the vision swimming behind his eyelids. Because Harry’s here, Harry’s touching him, his large, steady hands pressing into the jut of Zayn’s broad shoulders, and he isn’t sure he can trust his voice if he dared to look at Harry.

‘You’re late.’ He announces, all eloquence, Zayn Malik, a man of many words. His voice is weaker than he would have liked it to be, but. He’s nervous now, the weight of Harry and him being alone threatening to crush him, their bodies nearly pressed together, the heat radiating from Harry like he’s the sun. 

‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry that I kept you waiting. I should have called.’

Zayn can’t help but nod his agreement at Harry’s slow, syrupy words, and as he does, he’s not sure if he’s agreeing by proxy, agreeing because he can’t help but want to go along with everything Harry says, or because he actually does believe what Harry is saying. He reckons that it’s some odd mixture of both, his morale combined with his obvious affinity for Harry making it nearly impossible to disagree. 

‘Why didn’t you?’ Zayn asks, his voice somehow, miraculously, becoming stronger.

‘I didn’t come here for dinner.’ Harry’s reply is immediate, but there is something off about his tone. It’s no longer drawling, no longer resembling the pace of drizzling honey. It makes Zayn’s eyes open in concern, his need to see Harry’s expression flaring up, demanding to be acknowledged and fed without question. Zayn turns, his brows puckered together, a furrow to them, as he finally sets his gaze on Harry. He feels weak where he stands. 

 

‘Then why did you?’ Zayn’s voice actually shakes now, and he wishes for the semblance of strength that he had not even moments ago. 

Harry’s hands slipped from Zayn’s shoulders once Zayn had turned in his grasp, but now, as the absence of his warmth drenches Zayn in what feels like something equivalent to ice water, Harry settles them on either side of Zayn, trapping him between the granite surface of the sink and his long, lean frame. 

‘I came to see you.’ Harry says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His tone is far from chiding, however, and Zayn figures that he’s amused by his reaction, seeing the telltale smirk starting to tease at the corners of Harry’s lips. 

‘You always come to see me.’ Zayn amends lamely, his heart starting to sputter like an engine that has little life left to it, as the warmth of Harry’s breath starts to curl against the skin that is hardly exposed by his uniform; the ‘v’ of skin visible beneath his collar, the hollow of his throat, the jut of his chin, his jaw. He feels like he was shoved into direct sunlight, and he’s sure he’s never felt like this. Like he glows.

Harry doesn’t respond then, just moves a step closer, the toes of his boots knocking against Zayn’s sensible, non-slip shoes. He feels so out of his element right now, with Harry here, with his green eyes watching him almost expectantly, a hint of amusement and something a lot like yearning playing across his composed expression. He didn’t think he would see him at all tonight, let alone here, so close that they’re sharing breaths. So close that, if he wanted, he could count every freckle dotting the bridge of Harry’s nose, every eyelash and every blemish that made Harry that much more human. 

Zayn inhales for what feels like the first time since Harry’s entered the bathroom; he feels dizzy, the cloud of Harry Harry Harry causing him to feel dazed; honeysuckle and something that was just expensive sticking to Harry’s skin, clinging to the surface of him like it had made a home there. Zayn wishes he could bottle it and slap it against his wrists, against his neck every morning before he heads off to work. He wish he could have some part of Harry with him, just like Harry already has every part of Zayn.  
‘Why are you here?’ Zayn asks again, needing to know. He can’t bear to guess, his eyes threatening to flutter shut again. 

But Harry still doesn’t answer, his vocal chords seeming to have failed. Instead, he brings up one of his hands, his body shifting ever closer to Zayn’s, and brushes the pad of his thumb up and down the slope of Zayn’s cheek, his warm breath still fanning over his skin. He can feel it on his lips now, each breath Harry takes, and he feels lightheaded. 

His touch is purposeful, like he’s thought it through so many times, like he’s practiced in the mirror, like Zayn used to when he had a speech for school. He presses his thumbs into Zayn’s skin, a satisfying pressure, and sweeps it over the sharpness of his jaw, along his stubble, over the bridge of his nose, over his top lip. Zayn draws in a sharp breath, then, his eyes hidden by the heaviness of his lids, and he realizes just how harsh his breathing is, how his pulse is erratic. He feels like percussionists have taken place beneath his skin, in his veins, and are determined to beat out a raucous, messy melody. 

‘For you.’ Harry finally answers, and Zayn wants to close his eyes, to squeeze them shut and not open them until Harry’s gone, because he can’t do this. He can’t let Harry in, can’t let the man with the pigeon toes and the ugly silk shirts unspool him, can’t let him expose his heart. Because Zayn knows for a fact, as Harry’s warmth fills every void he’s ever felt throb and ache, that Harry is something that he will want forever, someone he will want always. Something he’ll want to tattoo on his skin alongside all the others, someone who will have a home in his heart forever. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. 

‘I’m here.’ Is what Zayn says instead, because he’s drunk, drunk off of Harry and impossibility, drunk off everything he’s never let himself have and everything he has always wanted. The words have barely left his lips, are still hovering between them like a promise, before Harry kisses him. Harry, with his stupid mouth, lips that are always wet, never chapped or dry, lips that are always so red, so slick, like he licks at them constantly. Zayn’s sure he does, knows it’s one of Harry’s tells, and he feels so close to him because it’s one of Zayn’s too, and fuck, they share something, have something in common, and Zayn feels moments from collapse, he wants him so much. 

Zayn’s sure it’s he that gasps, he that draws a breath in so quickly that there is barely time to register it before it turns into something else entirely, a low groan, something that’s deep in his chest, something he didn’t know existed. He’s at a loss, ten steps behind, his brain barely catching up as his body moves on it’s own, taking instructions from what could only be Zayn’s heart.

He kisses him back, wet and sloppy and needy, kissing and biting at the lips he’s stared at for months now, his fingers insistent as they press into the skin of Harry’s neck, Zayn gaining leverage as Harry parts his lips. When their tongues touch he feels like he’s going to die, like he may combust; he’s wanted it for so long, for Harry to want him too, that when they moan in unison at the contact, Zayn feels the heat uncoil deep in his abdomen as arousal ignites him from head to toe. He can feel himself getting hard from just this, adolescent in his excitement and his eagerness to take whatever Harry’s willing to give him. 

Zayn’s starting to feel numb with want, his fingertips tingling as they find purchase in Harry’s hair. Harry resolutely licks into his mouth and kisses Zayn so well, so thoroughly, he feels like his soul has left his body, that he’s not even Zayn anymore, that he’s an outsider watching it all unfold before him. ‘Fuck,’ he breathes against Harry, the pants he’s required to wear for his uniform becoming uncomfortably tight as Harry’s hands make their way across his body. 

He doesn’t know how he’s still standing, sure that it’s a miracle, and when Harry’s fingers go for his belt Zayn’s entire body feels like a livewire, like if they turned the lights off the electricity would be visibly coursing along the surface of his skin. He wants him so much he feels sick with it, like he needs to sit down and take a breather; but he can’t, because before he knows it Harry’s finished with his belt and is unzipping his pants, and fuck, Zayn can’t breathe. 

‘Harry, fuck, Harry -- just hold on. Wait. Wait, wait, wait.’ He needs to catch his breath, to level his head-- he needs to be able to fucking enjoy this while it lasts. 

‘Sorry, Zayn, I -- I’m sorry.’ He pulls back, his brows furrowed now, all concern. It’s the same expression he gets when Zayn tells him stories about things he gets up to with his buddies, his face becoming the epitome of worry as he goes on and on about all the reckless shit they get up to on the coast. Zayn’s heart surges with affection because it’s amazing, truly fucking incredible, that someone so special, someone as important as Harry, could possibly care about Zayn in any way at all. ‘I can stop, I didn’t ask, I’m sorry, I just --,’

But Zayn cuts him off, the fingers that were curled around Harry’s hair giving a sharp tug as he pulls Harry closer to him, so close that he can feel them touching everywhere -- their knees bumping, their noses brushing. Harry responds delightfully at that, a small sound that was almost a whine emitting from the back of his throat and Zayn wants him to make it over and over, until it’s the only thing he can hear. He’ll always need Harry, whether it be like this or sitting across from him at a table, playing his date for the night. Zayn would take whatever he could get.

‘It’s fine, I just. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.’ He tells him with a small smile, one that was shy and nothing like the grin that he flashes at all of the residents and guests he serves on a daily basis. This smile is more private somehow, more sacred, and he doesn’t know if Harry notices, but he only ever uses it when he’s with him. Zayn doubts that he does. 

Harry’s hands find a home on Zayn’s waist, thumbs pressing into the sharpness of Zayn’s hip bones, the ones that protrude against his skin, and he’s smiling too, smiling at Zayn like he did that first night; all slow and secret, like he knows everything about Zayn, like he can see right through him, as if he admires the things that make him Zayn. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Harry says, but his eyes and his sinful, stupid mouth say otherwise as his gaze darts from Zayn’s lips back to the warm amber of his eyes. ‘I just want you. So bad. Always.’

Always. Zayn’s thinking that he’s heard wrong, but he can feel the word reverberating against him, his skin, his bones, his goddamn marrow, and he feels impatient. The itch beneath his skin returning as he surveys Harry’s eyes more closely, noticing that they’re blown wide, more black than green, from what Zayn can only assume to be arousal. He’s just about to suggest they go somewhere, leave the bathroom, go somewhere that privacy is more of a guarantee, when Harry lowers to his knees and Zayn’s brain goes blank. 

His mind is nothing but a low buzz, like he can’t find the right radio station so he settled for static instead, and he’s unable to move or think as Harry tugs at Zayn’s pants, and then his briefs, and asking, ‘Is this okay?’ while Zayn nods along dumbly, his neck feeling about ready to snap from the vigor in which he responds. 

Harry only smiles before Zayn feels the wetness of his mouth pressing against his skin, and it’s so warm, like everything about Harry, that it causes Zayn to shiver, a chill running up his spine and causing him to tremble at the very core. He’s hard and leaking, his cock smearing pre-come across the hem of his uniform and god, thank fuck he had the next day off, because he didn’t have any quarters for the laundromat and --

‘Holy fuck, fuck, Harry, oh my god.’ Zayn hisses between his teeth, and all thoughts of laundry and quarters disappear as quickly as they had arrived as Harry takes him into his mouth; it’s pure bliss, hot, wet bliss that makes Zayn’s toes curls in his socks. His hands are still in Harry’s hair, he realizes, once he’s gripping it so hard that Harry moans around him and fuck, he’s never been so turned on his life -- his knees are moments from buckling, his hands shaking so hard that if he didn’t have them in Harry’s hair he was sure they would just be a blur. 

Harry’s got his cheeks hollowed around him, and he’s sucking him off with the kind of resilience that Zayn can only admire -- he feels like he’s floating, like this is some kind of fucking dream because in what world does someone get their fantasy, the very subject of all their daydreams down on their knees for them, ruining the fabric of their Armani pants just to give an enthusiastic blowjob?

Zayn doesn’t have the answer to that question, but Harry’s sure that Harry’s mouth could answer the questions of the universe, and he’s already so close, that warning coiling deep in his belly, telling him to hold on, to try and hold out as long as he can. His eyes flutter shut because he can’t watch Harry anymore, his sloppy, filthy mouth, the way spit is running down his chin and from the corner of his lips as he swallows around the head of Zayn’s cock with determination. Zayn’s just about to warn him, to pull him off, when Harry does so himself, Zayn’s dick slipping from his lips as he draws in a ragged, rattling breath. 

Zayn realizes it’s the first time he’s pulled off since he’s started, and he has to get a tight, dry hand around himself to hold off from coming right then and there, and Harry only laughs, a soft, melodic sound that fills the hollow of Zayn’s insides. Zayn can’t help himself as the hand that’s not wrapped preemptively around the base of his cock presses to Harry’s cheek, his eyes probably emanating so much fondness that the whole of Orange County can feel it too. Harry gives him that, the moment of tenderness, and presses his cheek to his hand, and Zayn’s not sure how he’s survived all twenty four years of his life without this very image. 

Harry only lets him have him for a moment, before he’s moving away, wiping his hand across his mouth as he looks up at Zayn, and then back at his leaking cock, eyeing him like he’s worried for his well being. Zayn’s just about to tell him that he can finish himself off, that he can handle it if Harry doesn’t want more, but he doesn’t get that far before Harry’s making his vision go fuzzy with the amount of want that’s radiating from every part of his being. 

Harry rests back on his haunches, and instead of reaching out for Zayn, he settles, his hands linking behind his back as he blinks slowly up at Zayn. He gives him a moment, perhaps to give Zayn time to prepare himself, but there’s no way that he could have ever prepared himself from the words that leave Harry’s lips then. 

‘I want you to fuck my mouth, Zayn.’ 

His voice is fucked, completely and utterly ruined from Zayn’s cock repeatedly hitting the back of his throat. It’s like the world collapses, or something close, because the only thing that matters to him in that moment is Harry, kind and caring Harry that makes Zayn feel willing to jump, willing to bet that Harry’s his safe place to land. It takes everything in him to maintain his control, to keep his expression composed as he lets out a shaky breath. 

‘Please.’ Harry adds, and Zayn takes a deep breath, because of course he’s asking nicely, making it seem like he’s asking a favor instead of unlocking the door to the center of Zayn’s entire universe. 

After that it’s a blur of movements, something that Zayn can only hope to remember. His fingers find purchase, find Harry, and he holds on, guiding his cock back into Harry’s mouth as his jaw relaxes and takes all of him. All of him, to the fucking hilt, the tip of his nose brushing against the dark patch of hair at Zayn’s base. And he’s a mess the entire time, sounds leaving him involuntarily, and he feels himself telling Harry how good he is, how amazing this feels, how he never wants him to show up late again, to stay, to please never leave. 

When he comes it’s sudden, the spit at the back of Harry’s throat the catalyst, the very reason that he feels like his soul is being torn in two by the talents of Harry’s sinful mouth. He feels horrible because he didn’t get to warn Harry, but the only thing he does is close his eyes as Zayn pulls away, his eyelashes casting spiderweb shadows against the top of his cheekbones. He’s so calm, so content, and Zayn is in total awe. It’s all a dream, he’s sure of it -- the entire thing is something straight from his vault of Harry centric fantasies, and he feels sick again, like he should keel over, all from how much he wants Harry. 

The man before him visibly swallows, a fucking champion, and Zayn feels another shiver run down his spine. It’s only a moment before he’s rising to his feet, his big, warm hands pressing into Zayn’s neck as he pulls him into a kiss. As Harry presses against him, frantic and needy in a way that is all his own, Zayn is more than willing to get him off, to make him feel as good as he did. Zayn hasn’t had this in so long, something so close, so wrong, and it feels better than anything he could ever imagine. He wishes he could bottle the way he’s feeling, wishes he could sell it on Ebay because he knows it would go for thousands. Everyone yearns to feel exactly how Zayn feels in that very moment. 

Zayn’s sure, as Harry kisses him, as he licks into his mouth and allows Zayn to taste traces of himself, that this is the start of something. The start of the end of everything Zayn had expected for himself, everything he had expected for the rest of his life. 

*

The next Saturday, Harry doesn’t show.

He doesn’t come to the Coliseum for an entire month, and doesn’t breathe a word to Zayn. Zayn’s miserable the entire time, thinking every head of brown hair could belong to the person who had reached recklessly into his chest and ripped his heart clean in two.

In June, when the sun is high and the pool is full of kids and parents alike, basking in their summer freedom, Harry returns. 

Only this time, he’s accompanied by his wife.

Zayn serves them with a smile, pretending like it’s all fine, that it’s all okay. 

Pretending that he doesn’t feel like dying.


	2. I just can't resist it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a couple of warnings !! there is the use of marijuana in this chapter, as well as really sad and anxiety ridden thoughts !! read with discretion if either of those things bother you ! okay, enjoy xx

'Zayn, are you going to share?'

It's Sunday, Zayn's only day off, the day that he cherishes more than any other, because it's the only time he can be away from his job, from the people who are starting to know him better than his own fucking family. 

Zayn looks up from where his hand, sure and always steady, is cupping around the burning end of the joint, to settle his gaze on Matt. Matt, who is tucked into the shitty, worn couch on their rickety patio across from Zayn. Zayn only frowns, and takes another drag, so long and exaggerated that he can feel the acrid smoke sticking to his lungs, making a home inside his throat and burning him like it's revenge for every bad decision he's ever made.

Matt raises an eyebrow at him, just one, making a face that is probably supposed to be some kind of a warning, but Zayn just smirks at him, all mirth and amusement, because it's his weed, and he'll take as many hits as he wants.

Matt's a good guy, nice enough and pretty friendly, with an athletic build that used to make Zayn feel self conscious about his bony ankles and his thin wrists. They met in Venice, outside of a shop that sells Medical Marijuana cards, coincidentally. Matt was someone that Zayn would have never had the nerve to speak to, that kind of attractiveness that makes you feel unsettled, like you need to push your hair back from your face or look in a mirror to make sure you haven't got something in your teeth. And sure, Zayn knows he's attractive, that he has nice cheekbones, sharp and angular, and a nice mouth, a pretty, open smile and kind eyes. But when beauty is met with toned, winding muscle and a quiet, graceful confidence, there is no match for it. 

So when Matt had turned his gaze on him, all full force and demanding, Zayn hadn't been sure what to do. He was lost for words, having tuned out everything that the man before him had been saying, and he felt awful, like a complete mess when he stumbled over his words asking him to repeat himself. Matt had just laughed, barked out a sound that was so pure, so honest, and clapped Zayn on the shoulder. He settled his gaze on him, all fond and polite, and Zayn allowed himself to smile shyly in return.

After that, they became good enough friends, Matt becoming the person he would text if he needed advice on minute, insignificant stoner things, like whether he should pick up indica or sativa, if it was better to smoke a specific type with a pipe, or rolled, or however. They were best acquaintances, Zayn liked to always think, before Matt moved in two years ago and became a part of Zayn's dysfunctional Newport family. Now Zayn can resolutely say that the brunet is the person that's closest to him, the person that can sense when he's sad or angry or hurt, can tell when he needs to be left alone or needs someone's solid, warm body pressed against his own with quiet words of reassurance murmured against the back of his neck -- against the fantail that's tattooed into his skin. He loves Matt, he truly does, and he doesn't know what he would do without him. Without his presence, Zayn was sure that he was doomed to fall apart. 

So he only takes one more drag, hand still guarding the joint from the relentless wind that whips south from the Pacific, the same wind Zayn felt piercing his cheeks every Saturday evening as the day bleeds into night. He makes a disgruntled noise, like he's unhappy about having to share his weed, but he passes it to Matt anyway, who takes it with a victorious smile on his pretty features, his familiar countenance playing a part in calming Zayn's nerves. He knows his face so well, the jut of his strong jaw and the slope of his straight, long nose -- his dark eyebrows that rival Zayn's in their thickness, the eyes that are the wrong kind of green, but pretty nonetheless. There's a part of Matt that feels a lot like home.

When Matt takes a pull, and then another, Zayn draws his gaze away from him to look out to the water, to watch as the sun sets against it. He's lucky, he knows, to be one of the few lucky people that get to watch the sun kiss the edge of the earth every single night, to get to bask in the great part nature that plays such an important role in Zayn's life. He's sure that if he lived anywhere else, a place that was landlocked and far from the water, a place that was trapped by its carbon copies, he would never feel any semblance of happiness again. The idea of living in a house in the middle of the suburbs, of having to pay a mortgage and water a lawn that's identical to his neighbor's, and his neighbor's neighbor, was repulsive to him. So he busted his ass, worked as hard as he possibly could, did everything in his power to make rent every month for a shitty apartment with four other roommates, because it really wasn't all that shitty when he got to watch the sun wink at him every night before it disappeared until tomorrow. 

'What are you thinking about?'

Zayn tears his gaze away from the water, from the sunlight that was starting to cause his eyes to ache from the prolonged and direct contact, to settle on the man across from him once more. There's small, black spots dotting across his vision at the moment, and he tries stubbornly to blink them away so he can properly look at his roommate. He frowns, realizing the question is something of a tradition, muscle memory for being out here on the porch, a wilting joint or a shared beer between them. He frowns because while it's familiar, for the first time, Zayn doesn't want to answer. He doesn't want to tell Matt how he's trying not to think at all -- how he can't think, because if he does, the Styles' will swim to the forefront of his mind, Harry and his beautiful wife, Harry and his stupid ugly laugh and his awful suede boots, Harry that broke his heart clean in two.

'Nothing, really. Life. Nature. Existential shit.' He hears Matt snort, and they reach out simultaneously, as Matt offers the spliff to him once more, and Zayn takes it back between his thumb and forefinger. It's already between his lips as Matt prompts him again, a grimace pinching at the corners of his full lips. 

'Nah, man. I can tell something's bothering you. You're like, sad. Or pissed. Maybe both.' He shrugs, as if he isn't discussing Zayn's feelings, like he's talking about something mundane and unimportant, like tomorrow's forecast or something stuck to the bottom of his fucking shoe.

Zayn feels a surge of something, something strong, but he buries it deep. He doesn't like feeling, not since June.

'It's just work. I'm tired. Stressed. I'm over it, is all. I don't know what I'm supposed to do from here, you know? Like, I know I can't work there forever, and I know there's probably something out there for me, waiting and expecting me to stop settling and get off my ass and find it. But I just can't.' But Zayn knows that it has nothing to do with his capability. He just won't. Because if he leaves, what's next? A job where he doesn't get to see Harry? Zayn would rather die, probably.

'I'm sorry man, shit sucks. You're doing your best, though. I'm sure that you'll find something for you sooner or later, and it will be like the movies. The clouds will part and sun will shine down on you and you'll be eternally happy or some shit.' 

Zayn can't help but laugh, but it's weak, almost humorless, and he lets the sound die in his throat, lets the smoke he keeps inhaling suffocate it in the depths of his chest. 'The clouds? You're fucked out of your mind. When's the last time there were clouds in Newport?' 

His tone was taunting, teasing, something to get a rise out of Matt, and it works perfectly, causing Matt to rise from his seat to knock his fist against Zayn's shoulder. It's affectionate though, a gesture that makes Zayn's icy insides flood with a rush of warmth. 

'Fuck off, would you?' Matt says petulantly, lips pressed together like a child who isn't getting his way. But Zayn knows he means the exact opposite, his eyes and his burgeoning smile enough to tell Zayn that he doesn't ever want him to leave.

*

Zayn's always been well-read, someone who can breeze through a book without blinking, someone who can start a story and finish it in the same sitting. When he was young, he read everything he could get his hands on; graphic novels and comics from the store down the street, ones that weren't part of any important series, but books that piqued Zayn's interest anyway. He could devour one of his mother's Danielle Steele novels without batting an eyelash, eyebrows raised in alarm as he read the raunchy details of torrid love affairs, ones that turned into happily ever afters. He fell in love with places he had never been, people who didn't truly exist beyond the pages, obsessing over all of the possibilities that the world was holding out for him, waiting patiently for him to reach out and grasp.

But the stories he loved the most were the ones with the happy endings, the stories that came full circle; the protagonist starting off with a struggle, with a seemingly impossible endeavor, only to overcome it in the rising action and to accomplish his goals in the climax, the rest of the story ending on a relieving, satisfying note. He wanted nothing more than for the main character to succeed, to pull through and be alright, because that's what everyone wanted, in some way, wasn't it? For everything to turn out alright in the end?

Zayn hopes so, and he knows that he shouldn't have given up on his literature degree, that he should have stuck with it, finished school and chased after the wisps of the half dream he had created for himself. But he couldn't, couldn't bear to finish, couldn't bear to have to face the reality of life with only a few options for work. Literature degrees did jack, his dad had even told him so when he announced his major six years ago; the money was in engineering and sciences, in business and finance. What was Zayn playing at? It's not like he would become a writer, or something even close. He didn't have a lot of motivation for anything after the weight of his reality settled on his shoulders, bearing the pressure of everything he didn't have the courage to do. 

And Zayn is sure that he was meant to have some sort of happy ending, where he walks off into the sunset, hand in hand with the person that he wanted to be his more than anything else. He was positive, even, that this couldn't really be it. That god or whatever entity may be controlling his destiny may have bigger and better plans for him than this, than the heartbreak he refuses to acknowledge in the daytime, the heartbreak that takes over once the sky bleeds black and he has no strength to pretend or hide anymore.

*

Each night starts and ends the same. Zayn talks about going out, gets revved about something exciting, how he feels like he can do anything. Like, if he really wanted, he could reach up and touch the sky with his fingertips, scratch it open and let the stars fall, fall freely enough so everyone could catch at least one. He talks of adventure, and doing something that matters, something that's significant, and his roommates humor him, tell him that 'Yeah, Z, you can do anything you fucking want' and promising that the world is at his disposal. 

He goes out, dances on his blistered feet, allows salt from the ocean and sweat stick to his skin as he presses up against Nathan, or Matt, or Kenny, in another club, another place that doesn't truly care about him or his story that seems doomed to end badly. He lets Nathan tip drinks down his throat, ones that burn his so badly Zayn has to screw his eyes shut, lets Matt light him another cigarette, and then another and another, lets Kenny press sloppy kisses to his cheeks and tell him 'this is it, this is everything' and Zayn just pretends like he feels like he's living, instead of the opposite. It's easier to pretend when he has a buzzing in his brain and a numbness to his extremities. It's easier to pretend when he isn't getting flashes of green eyes and pink lips and white, white teeth behind his eyelids, flashing brighter than any of the lights in any of the sloppy, sweaty clubs that seem to welcome Zayn with open arms, welcome him to debauchery that only leaves him feeling emptier and emptier as June turns into July.

The nights he can't avoid, that get under his skin and weaken him like a disease, are the Saturday's he had been so eager to fill with Harry, Harry, Harry. Harry, who brings her with him every time, like it's some kind of requirement; like everything that happened between them across the table, every secret Zayn shared and every touch Harry spared, had disintegrated, had become a stark nothingness that made Zayn's skin feel white hot and his eyes sting with the threat of tears. Because it didn't matter, did it, what happened in the past. He can't scream about the vastness of the injustice he feels, because even one utterance of what took place between them -- whether it be their simultaneous smiles or the frantic touches that seemed to set Zayn on fire in the very washroom he has to use every fucking day -- would mean his head on a silver platter, courtesy of Carla. He wasn't allowed to speak a word of what he was feeling, instead having to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat, threatening Zayn, warning him that it was only a matter of time before the words will spew from him like vomit. 

So those are the nights that he uses all of his energy, the energy he has seemed to stow away bit by bit, all week, so that he can survive the shift that makes him want to crawl beneath the covers and never wake up. He does everything he can to mentally prepare himself, builds himself up so, so high in hopes that the fall will be less painful once it inevitably happens. He jokes with his co-workers, flashes his false, dazzling smile, shakes hands with money pressed into palms, and does everything he can to pretend that the impending torture isn't only hours away. 

They still come at closing, at ten, when everything is winding down, and the places right down the highway begin to come to life. He thinks dangerous quips about them having a bed time, about how they're probably messing up their schedule to have straight, vanilla sex by going out, by coming to Zayn's restaurant to establish their happiness, to say 'Look at us, aren't we everything you could ever want' by exchanging soft, domestic touches and pressing their lips to each other's ears to whisper and laugh about things Zayn wouldn't ever find funny. 

And Zayn just smiles, gets Harry his stupid fucking tea, and her glass of '78 Merlot that's probably as old as her, and lets them tip him generously, though Zayn always gives it to Dubray, insisting that Harry meant it for him anyway. He stays hidden in the kitchen, only going out at ten minute intervals to make sure that everything is to their liking, that the lights aren't too harsh, that their water has the perfect amount of ice cubes. 

Harry doesn't look at him unless he absolutely has to, avoids his gaze and no longer smiles the smile that made Zayn sit across from him that first night. It makes Zayn hate him, hate himself, hate absolutely everything. Because Harry lied, only focused on him because he was bored, because his wife didn't feel like joining him for dinner on a Saturday night. He made Zayn seem like he was the most important person in the whole of Newport, in the entire world, only to make him feel worthless weeks later. Like everything Zayn was only mattered when Harry smiled and chided him for being reckless with his friends, for getting up to things that could only be characterized as 'young' and 'foolish'. And while he wanted to be able to blame Harry for it all, to sleep peacefully at night as the fault threatened to crush Harry against his thousand thread count sheets, he couldn't. Because Zayn had known better. He did. He was supposed to be smarter than this. 

So he doesn't blame Harry at all, doesn't blame him for any of it. Because Zayn was the one who got swept up in it all, obsessed with the idea of being part of that world he had always viewed from the outside, of being special enough to share it with Harry. It's not like the man had promised him anything; he didn't guarantee that he was set on taking Zayn everywhere he wanted to go, or that he was going to give him everything he had ever dreamed. No, he didn't say it explicitly to Zayn, but when Zayn rambled on and on during their end of week rendezvous', Zayn couldn't help but read between the lines, between the way Harry's fingers twitched when Zayn laughed, when his eyes crinkled at the corners and his tongue pressed against his teeth. He just thought that it had meant something, and that's where he had gone wrong. He had fooled himself to near the edge of the cliff he had spent the last two years avoiding; the slippery slope that came from envying the wealth that was flaunted lasciviously in front of him every fucking day. Zayn should have been smarter.

And when they leave, Harry's hand resting on the small of Michelle's back, her delicate hands pressing against him in hopes to steady herself in her Manolo Blahniks, Zayn pretends like it doesn't hurt to watch, like it doesn't kill him to see the valet bring around their four door Rolls Royce, with its white exterior that makes it look like it's made of diamonds, like it's straight out of a Fitzgerald novel. Zayn pretends like it doesn't hurt, just like Harry pretends that Zayn doesn't exist. 

*

Zayn gets home from his shift later than expected, the traffic on PCH causing his journey to be more stop than go. 

He reaches for the doorknob, knowing that someone has to be home, and he pushes inside his apartment with ease. Zayn goes on auto-pilot for what seems to be the tenth time that day, his body folding at the waist so he can take off his shoes, then his socks, his apron shortly after. He pads barefoot across the scraggly, in desperate need of a wash carpet, and heads into the bedroom he shares with Nathan. It's mostly his though, since Nathan is always staying over at his girlfriend's, and it's Zayn's things that are scattered everywhere. His posters of Bob Marley and Prince, his stack of CD's and Vinyls beside his sound system. It's his shoes that are in a messy row near the door, and he adds his work ones to the line, and tries not to think about how he's going to have yet another night of sleeping alone. He's sure Matt and Kenny are out, and that Nathan won't be back until Monday, and who knows what Marcus is doing. Marcus, their roommate that they met on Craigslist, the guy they needed once Newport property values rose and the rent did too. He hardly ever leaves his room, a student at University of California, Irvine, always studying for some serious test. Zayn doesn't ever disturb him, and he assumes that he doesn't ever want to be bothered. 

Zayn heads back into the kitchen, his uniform still hanging from his body, his hair, now dyed silver and longer than he'd prefer, is wilted and limp against his forehead, having lost it's volume as he drove home with the windows down, the smell of the ocean and the coldness of the wind an excuse to let his eyes water. 

He's just about to warm up the leftovers from the Coliseum, his lips pursed together as he looks through his options of mac and cheese that was made with some expensive, smelly cheese that had an aftertaste, and an omelette that seemed to be growing something. He loses his appetite -- as if he really had one in the first place -- and throws out both. It's not his turn on the trash so he ignores it, and heads back to his room. It's when he's stripping off the white uniform embellished with Pelican Hill's logo that he nearly jumps out of his skin, a knock on the doorframe scaring him out of his fucking wits. 

'Jesus, fuck, what the fuck?' He breathes, his voice rough from overuse. Zayn turns to look over his shoulder just at Matt raises his hands in surrender, his eyebrow raised in a way that says he's wary of what Zayn might do. 

Zayn just rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and goes to sit on the edge of his bed, in nothing but his boxers. 'You scared me half to death, you know?' Zayn tells him, an annoyed lilt to his voice, but his expression is warm and open, as it always is when Matt's around. 

Matt just smiles sheepishly, and goes on to say, 'Didn't mean to. I just got back from this bonfire,' and as he says it, Zayn inhales, the smell of smoke and wood and sand pressing into the four corners of Zayn's room, seeming content to stay there. 'Are you alright? How was work?'

Zayn can only shrug, his lips turned down in a frown as he closes his eyes, and he gets the flashes of Harry, and Michelle, and everything else that is wrong in his world. 

'It was fine. Nothing new.' He breathes, and it's shocking to him, how easy it's become to lie to the people close to him. How easy it is to lie for himself, and for Harry. But he doesn't want to think about it, the very thought of it all making his stomach churn, and he's quite glad he hadn't eaten. He feels sick. 

Matt knows him though, knows him like the back of his fucking hand, and he knows that the other male would be damned to let him go through something alone. It doesn't matter what it was -- Zayn has only been visibly, noticeably upset a handful of times in the last few years, and Matt helped him through each and every one, regardless of the caliber. Whether it was when his grandpa had finally passed after being sick for ages, or when Steve Carell left The Office, Matt was his rock. His one, truly guaranteed source of comfort. 

So it's no surprise when Matt shrugs off his jacket, and then his shirt, and his jeans soon after. He comes to sit by Zayn on the bed, and Zayn can only be glad that he decided to leave his boxers on, knowing Matt usually opts to sleep naked. He's sure that's what comes next, Matt offering to lay beside him, knowing that Zayn needs it more than anything else right now. They don't say much, Zayn just shifts and makes his way underneath the covers, and curls up, his feet already turning cold as the blood flow gets cut off, but he doesn't care. It's more comfortable to sleep like this, to sleep and try to hold himself together. He turns his back to Matt and listens as he slips beneath the covers, and Zayn closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Matt's strong, warm arms circle around him. Zayn presses his toes against Matt's calf, lets his body heat warm him even more, as Matt let's out a hiss. 

'Sorry.' Zayn murmurs, and he feels Matt breathe out a laugh, one that shakes his broad shoulders, against the tattoo at the nape of his neck. 

'It's all good, Z.' He pauses, and Zayn knows he's going to speak again, 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'Not really.'

'It's okay, we don't have to.'

Another pause. Another moment that's filled to the brim with all of things Zayn wants to so desperately say, but can't. 

'Thank you.' Is all he says instead.

'Mhm. Go to sleep, Zayn.'

*

The next morning, Matt is still pressed against him with his strong chest now acting as Zayn's pillow. He can feel his heartbeat against the shell of his ear, how it's sound and calm, like heavy bass in the old jazz songs that his mom used to play throughout most of Zayn’s childhood. Zayn's eyes blearily flutter open, and he's reluctantly coming into consciousness, all sticky and slow, his brain coaxing him to get up and get going. He sleeps like the dead, usually, and Matt's even worse. He only wakes up when he's ready, and he's glad that Matt has a job, a career that can accommodate his zombie-like sleeping habits. Matt does graphic design, makes sick websites for non-profits who pay him well. Well enough that he could afford his own place like this, right on the sand if he wanted, but Matt always insists he's happy here. Zayn pretends not to notice how he looks at him every time he says so. 

The sun is streaming through the thin cracks in the blinds, spilling across Zayn's comforter like liquid gold. He knows that if the sun is already lighting up his room, that it's well past morning, verging on noon. Zayn moves from Matt's unconscious embrace and climbs over him, careful not to elbow or knee him, lest he wake him up, and finds his phone in the pocket of his uniform pants that were now crumpled on the floor of his room. As he presses the home button, it only confirms his suspicion of the time, as the large numbers inform him that it's well past eleven. Zayn has already lost precious hours, so he scrambles to find something to wear, grabbing the first clothes his fingers touch once he’s yanked open the drawers of his dresser, and he soon disappears into the bathroom. 

For living in a place with four other people, four other men, particularly, they manage to keep the place pretty clean. They have an intricate list of chores and duties that they are meant to do, all color coded and organized. It was Nathan, wild, never seeming to stand still Nathan, who decided that they needed some semblance of structure in their living space. They did everything in turns, certain colors on the chart meaning they had permanent chores, and they had ones they could trade too, swapping dishes for trash, things of the like. Zayn almost never has to clean the bathroom, always begging Matt to switch with him whenever that particular task comes into his circuit, and after pressing kisses to Matt's cheeks and pestering him to no end, he always agrees. 

And Zayn is so fucking grateful, for Nathan and his meticulous chore list, as he steps into the clean shower, all of the soaps and shampoos and conditioners lined up accordingly along the narrow windowsill. Zayn shaves, careful of his prominent veins on his neck where the razor grazes over. He lathers, rinses, and repeats, making sure that he looks half presentable, before he's out of the bathroom, the hot water causing the steam to build up quickly and it filters out behind him as he returns to his room.

Zayn gets dressed as Matt continues to snore softly, laying on his back. He always tries to sleep on his stomach, or his side, so that he doesn't snore and disturb the rest of the people in the house, but he always winds up on his back, anyway. Zayn can't help but smile at him, a quick, brief smile that only lasts a fraction of a moment, before he remembers the urgency that had spurred him into action in the first place. He tugs on his clothes, black jeans and a white shirt, simple and clean, and opts to let his hair air dry, only running through it with paste for a few moments before searching for his keys and wallet.

He's just found them and he's tucking them into his pockets, pulling on his boots when he hears a low groan, one that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

'Zayn.'

He hears his name in that voice that is so familiar, and it's thick with something, something that Zayn is going to pretend he didn't hear. 

Zayn's about to leave, to allow Matt to continue sleeping in his bed, no harm done, when he hears his name again. This time, it's more calculated, and he knows that Matt's awake now. He turns to look at him, all confused and still sticky with the drowsiness, rubbing at his eyes with a curled fist like a child. He looks so soft, Zayn's heartstrings tug at the affection he feels for him, then. He may be a tall, sturdy man, someone that is intimidating at the best of times, but now, sheets tangled around him and haziness still fogging his brain, he doesn't look like he could hurt a fly. 

'Where are you going?'

'Um, I just have some errands I have to run.' And maybe he's getting better at lying now, the words leaving his lips with almost no resistance. 

'Wait, I'll get ready. I'll go with.'

'No, Matt, it's fine, really.' He says, moving over to him and touching his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze, before he smiles at him. 'You can keep sleeping, I won't be gone long, alright? Just go back to sleep.' 

Matt doesn't really look like he believes him, even in his half-awake, hardly comprehending state, and he nods slowly before lowering back onto the pillows. Zayn takes the opportunity to escape from Matt's knowing gaze, and disappears from his room, closing the door behind him, and heading out of the apartment. 

As he takes the steps down the stairs two at a time, he thinks back on what he told Matt as he was leaving. Zayn thinks that it wasn't really a lie, more of half of one. He did have things to do, places to go, people to try and see. He just didn't know how soon he would be back. He would stay out all night if he had to. 

*

It's crazy, the way fate interacts with all of your decisions. The way it has a mind of it's own, doing the exact opposite of what you feel is required of it. 

Zayn hates fate, and coincidence, and everything else in between. He hates the way it interferes with his plans, the way it messes up how he wanted things to go. Fuck the saying that everything happens for a reason. Zayn was stubborn enough to think that things should happen because you want them to. Because you allow them. He and the universe were always at odds with their differing opinions of what Zayn deserved. 

Zayn drives down PCH with the windows down again, changing the station every few minutes to try to find one that suits his mood -- from cookie-cutter pop that makes his head pound, to the smooth jazz that makes him miss his mom. He ends up turning the radio off at one point, frustrated with the fact that he couldn't find anything he wanted to listen to. 

As he drives, Zayn can't help but think about how shitty his life is turning out to be. He doesn't do this often, wallow in all the things that are wrong with him. Because he knows that he could be a lot worse off, that things could continue going downhill until he had nothing left at all. But Zayn allowed it now, allowed his own pity to take center stage at the forefront of his thoughts. His life wasn't supposed to turn out like this, wasn't supposed to end with him being alone, with nothing to show for himself or his life beside a starch-stiff uniform and half of a literature degree. 

His self-deprecating thoughts keep him company as he ventures down Pacific Coast Highway, catching glimpses of the ocean and the sprawling estates, still not desensitized to the beauty that emanates from each doorstep, from every terrace that looks right out to the water.

He's still feeling like shit when he pulls into a small parking lot right off of the road, a small center with half a dozen businesses squeezed into the small strip of one story buildings. 

He walks past a cupcake shop, an insurance firm, and a jewelry store before he finally finds himself in front of a small yoga studio. When he opens the door, a small bell chimes, and he's welcomed by a pretty woman behind the front desk. The place is practically bleeding money, the price for the sessions 'available upon request', and as the faux smile the woman had when he walked in slips from her countenance once she takes in Zayn's less than impressive appearance, he's sure by the way she's looking at him that 'available upon request' means something he can't afford.

Zayn approaches the desk hesitantly, his boots squeaking against the polished wood floors of the studio. He clears his throat, his fingers itching for a cigarette, as the woman -- Talia, her name tag reads -- shoots him a withering gaze, almost daring him to speak.

Sometimes Zayn hates Orange County.

'Um, hi.' He says, and she doesn't respond, not a plucked brow or a manicured finger moving from her statuesque state. 

So Zayn tries again, clearing his throat once more, 'I was just wondering if my friend has checked in yet? I know there is a session at twelve, and --,' But he's cut off by another chime of the bell, and he holds his breath.

He only releases it when Talia greets a woman as she enters. He really hopes he can do this quickly, so he isn't caught off guard. He's not sure he would ever get his breath back if he didn't have a chance to prepare himself. 

'You were saying?' Talia prompts, sounding bored, her voice dull and lacking the enthusiasm that had just colored her tone when she welcomed the woman moments before. 

'I was wondering if Harry Styles has come in for his session, yet? Is there, like, a way you could check that for me?' His voice comes out in a rush, like he can't wait to get the words out, and he had to admit he felt relieved once he did. Talia only gives him one more contemptuous look before her fingers tap across the iPad that must contain the information he's so desperate for. She's only looking for a minute when she speaks again, her voice not even bored now, but clearly annoyed. Her clipped tone only reminds him of Carla, 'There's no record of a Harry Styles being here today. Or any other day.' 

Zayn opens his mouth, parts his lips, ready to ask if she's sure, before she sets the iPad back down, and dares him to question her. That causes him to flounder, trying to find the right thing to say, before he just nods, unable to find his voice. He turns his back on Talia and the posh studio, and heads back to his car, his fingers immediately reaching for the glove compartment, shuffling around his car's manual and his proof of insurance and old insurance to find his emergency pack of cigarettes. 

As he places one between his lips and lights it, he starts the car, taking a long pull from it and letting the smoke leak from his nostrils as he turns back onto the highway. 

He's not supposed to be smoking, is the thing. He knows it's awful for you, that is causes tar to build up in your lungs, causes cancer and emphysema, makes your teeth yellow and your nails brown, your skin wrinkled. But right now, as he takes drag after drag, letting the taste of tobacco fill his lungs, he feels better, more centered, the habit somehow making his hands stop shaking and his mind stop spinning. All Zayn can focus on is the smoke, his breathing, and the road. 

The rest of the day goes much of the same; Zayn walks into another place he's never been, asking for Harry, looking for any sign of him amongst the various settings. He doesn't find him anywhere, but Zayn is reminded of him; he smells honeysuckle and he wants to cry, but he'll never admit it. He finishes his entire pack of emergency cigarettes by the time he gets back to his apartment, and slides into his parking space. He rests his head against the steering wheel and steels himself, takes deep breaths and his lungs and throat sting as punishment for his impulsiveness. 

It's crazy, isn't it , how fate works. You can try to force it, to make things happen all you want, but if the universe isn't willing it, it's not going to happen. 

Zayn looked for Harry in every place that he could possibly be. He went to every fucking place in Newport Beach, even Laguna, trying to find him. He had to. He needed to speak to him, to tell him everything that kept rising in his throat, that perched on the tip of his tongue, anxious to be said. 

But it doesn't happen. He doesn't find Harry. And all Zayn can think about is how unfair life is, how you can run into someone you never wanted to see again at a grocery store in your hometown, and they insist on getting a drink, catching up, seeing how you are, how life is. How you can stumble upon your best friend at a place neither of you have been before, laughing at the odds, how you both beat them and you ended up together, by each other's side, anyway. 

Zayn can't force fate, no matter how hard he tries.

He looks up at his apartment from where he still sits in the driver's seat, and sees shadows of various people moving back and forth in front of the main window. He sees Matt's telltale physique, his large arms and his strong chest, all the way from here. He looks like he's pacing, and Zayn knows Matt well enough to know that he only paces when he's anxious, when he's waiting.

He turns the keys in the ignition once more, and peels back out onto the street, and drives and drives until he can no longer see his building getting smaller and smaller in the rear view.

 

*

'One, two, three!'

Zayn throws back his fourth shot, Liam right beside him, and he laughs, laughs and laughs and laughs like he'll never get the chance to find something funny again. His throat is ruined, from the cigarettes, the alcohol, and the shouting that had been taking place for the better part of an hour. 

It had all happened on a whim, spontaneity and adventure tucked into each nook and cranny of Zayn's decision to go out, to get so drunk that he couldn't even see straight, to feel the press of bodies against his own in the hopes to feel less alone. He called Liam, knowing that he was probably just getting off of work at his second gig, knowing that Liam was too nice to say no. 

Liam tended the bar at a dive spot in Long Beach in the evenings, and bussed tables at Coliseum in the mornings and afternoons. Zayn didn't know a person who had such an impressive work ethic, and he was constantly blown away by Liam's ability to seemingly do everything and anything he set his mind to. Zayn was surprised that he didn't envy Liam for that, knowing that the green monster had a way of clawing at his chest, demanding to take control no matter how much Zayn tried to fight against it. Zayn just respected Liam, and was glad to have him by his side, glad to be with someone who didn't know him better than they knew themselves. It got tiring, having to pretend like everything was fine, having to act like he wasn't fragile, someone who needed to be handled with care. So he asked Liam to get shitfaced with him, knowing that the good natured male wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him.

*

He's on his seventh shot when Liam is telling him to slow down, to pace himself, reminding him that if he didn't they would have to go to hospital for alcohol poisoning, and Liam didn't reckon it was the best idea to call an Über to be their designated driver to the ER. 

Zayn only laughs at that and heeds Liam's warning, dances with him, dances until his feet ache and and his throat hurts so much that he feels like he could pass out from the pain. But Zayn doesn't mind; he welcomes it, welcomes feeling something besides the numbness that was a result of Harry’s mishandling of his paper heart. 

The rest of the night passes by in a blur, all colors and drinks and Liam's smile and laughter, entwined with Zayn's shouting and his eagerness to feel free, to break from the suffocating pressure of his sadness. He's laid against Liam in the car, their driver humoring their drunkenness, being exceptionally kind and understanding regardless of the late hour and the state of his passengers. His head is resting against Liam's shoulder once they pull up to Zayn's apartment, a frown coloring his expression as he tries to piece together how the driver knew where to go. As if reading his thoughts, the man behind the wheel speaks up, his sharp, fox-like features peering at Zayn in the rear view mirror.

'Here we are, dude. This is the right place, isn't it? This is what you have designated as 'home' on your account, at least.' 

Zayn could cry, he's so grateful, and the understanding that he's finally home calms him, seeps through his skin and into his bones, making him feel heavy with relief. And he's far from sloppy, not a lightweight on even his worst nights, so he manages to say goodbye to Liam and extricate from the seatbelt, his hands careful and starting to tremble. 

He closes the door and the car, a Subaru Crossover, pulls out of the parking lot of Zayn's complex, tires loud against the rough gravel. He watches it go until it's out of sight, and makes his way up the three flights of stairs to his place. He's starting to remember as sober thoughts infiltrate the drunken ones, that he left his keys with Liam so he can drive here in the morning and pick him up for their shared shift. He smiles, glad that he had thought everything through, and tries the doorknob. It's locked, and Zayn's surprised, knowing that they always keep it open, unless no one is home. He knocks, his fist rapping against the door lightly, and after a minute when nobody answers, his raps against the wood turn to a dull pounding until finally the door is yanked open. 

Zayn almosts falls forward, most of his strength and balance being focused to his fist, but he catches himself and steps past the threshold. He isn't paying attention, and he runs into the person that had opened the door, and the familiar scent of pine scented deodorant clouds his senses. 

Matt. 

'Where the fuck have you been?' 

Oh, well. Angry Matt. Zayn's drunken brain finds this funny, for some reason, and he starts laughing, the scrape of the sound against his throat almost as gravelly as their driveway. 

'Why are you laughing? Did you hear what I asked you? I don't get what's funny, Zayn.'

And when Zayn looks up, he peers at Matt's angry, contorted expression, and suddenly, Zayn is no longer laughing. He frowns, immediately annoyed by the look on Matt's face, and he pushes past him. It wouldn't have worked usually, Zayn's hands against Matt's chest with the intention of moving him, but it does now, Matt not at all expecting it and moving back a few steps. 

Zayn knows he's mad, but he doesn't want to do this here, in the living room, where everyone in the apartment could hear them loud and clear. So Zayn goes into his room and sits on the edge of the bed, the same position he had taken the night before. He starts to undo his boots when Matt follows him in, practically slamming the door behind him. The sound makes blood rush through Zayn's head, and he can feel his pulse in his ears. 

'Could you maybe not slam my door? Thanks.' Zayn quips, irritation dripping from each word he spoke. 

'What the fuck, Zayn? Like, seriously. What the fuck. I called you like a thousand times, and so did Kenny, and you didn't answer one of them. We thought you were fucking dead or something. Why didn't you call us back?'

Zayn knows exactly why -- his phone was currently in his car's glove compartment, stowed away for this particular reason. He was twenty-four years old, for Christ's sake; he didn't have anyone to answer to, and his roommates weren't his babysitters. It's not his fault he wanted to be a fucking adult for once, be able to disappear off the radar when he saw it fit. 

'And you're still mad? I'm here. Clearly alive and well.' Zayn says, rolling his eyes. He hasn't looked at Matt since he came into the room.

'You're drunk. Fucking wasted, by the looks of it.'

Zayn feels a surge of anger at the statement, 'Obviously. But I'm fucking alive. Isn't that what you guys were worried about? That I was dead?'

Matt doesn't respond right away, only moves to sit down next to Zayn on the bed. Zayn immediately moves away from him; he thought Matt understood, that he knew when Zayn needed space or when he preferred a shoulder to cry on. Right now, the latter sounded absolutely awful, and he wouldn't mind being left alone until tomorrow, after his hangover is cured and his heart is starting to piece itself back together. 

'That's not why I was worried. You left this morning, and you didn't come back, or text me, or let any of us know where you were. We didn't know where you had gone, that's all. We just - you don't ever disappear like that, you know?' Matt hesitates before adding, 'You usually, like, tell us. We didn't know if you were going to come back. And the other day, you had told me how you felt like you were stuck here, and I didn't know if you had decided to just run away from it all.'

For some reason, Matt's confession, his expression of worry and concern, only makes Zayn more upset. He had confided in him, told him some of his most worrying thoughts, and here he was, using it as his reasoning behind pestering Zayn into spilling his whereabouts, saying it's the catalyst behind his ridiculous and unnecessary behavior. Zayn wants to hit him. 

'Yeah, well, you all know me well enough. Who would I be if I ever missed a fucking shift, right?' He says bitterly, standing from where he was sat on the bed, wanting to get away from Matt once more. He finally spares a look at him -- his large green eyes are rimmed with red, and Zayn knew he had been smoking, probably as much as he had today, and his dark hair looked greasy, like he had been continuously running his fingers through it. Zayn felt a twinge of guilt, for leaving tonight when he knew that Matt was waiting for him, but he suppresses it. Zayn didn't ask for him to do that -- it was all Matt's decision. He doesn't feel bad at all. 

'I don't really feel like having anyone here tonight.' He says, his voice flat, void of any emotion, and he says it like that hoping Matt interprets it as him being tired, exhausted from his night out. 

Matt doesn't though, he sees right through him, another person who can see Zayn for the transparent liar that he is. 

'Did you smoke today?'

Zayn resists the urge to roll his eyes, noting the hint of worry in Matt's voice. Worry that reminded him of Harry. 'Maybe.'

'How much.' It isn't even a question. 

'One or two.'

Matt takes a deep breath. 'Zayn.'

Zayn doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to have this conversation when he feels like his brain is swimming in all of the gin and tonics he drank tonight, doesn't want to argue with Matt while he feels like his heart is going to collapse from the sadness that has been crushing him for that last two months. He doesn't want this. 

'A pack. A whole fucking pack, all twenty of them. Why the fuck does it matter?'

Matt just laughs humorlessly, shakes his head like a disappointed parent, like he had confirmed his suspicions. 

'Your health doesn't matter, you're right, Zayn. That's just great, you know? Fucking spectacular.'

Zayn takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but he's starting to see red bleed into his vision. He really doesn't want to fight, but he can tell that Matt is more than up for it. 

'My health shouldn't be any of your concern. I'm an adult, I'll smoke however much I like. I'll come and go when I fucking please, because I can, and I don't have to tell anyone where I am, because if you haven't noticed, I'm always going to come back. It's not like I have anywhere else to go.' 

He doesn't know why Matt reacts to his words the way he does, why he flinches like he's been slapped, so Zayn doesn't ask. He just goes for the door, swings it open and stands against the frame as he tries to avoid looking at Matt. 

'I'd like to sleep now.'

Matt doesn't even hesitate, just stands up and walks towards the door. Zayn is just about to close it behind him, to mutter something about it not letting it hit him in the ass on his way out, when Matt turns and settles that green gaze on him. Zayn is about to say something, but the earnest swimming in his viridescent irises is enough to make Zayn hold his tongue. 

'Z, I just - I know something's wrong. Can you please just tell me?'

No. No, no, no. Zayn can't tell him, can't tell anyone, can't say anything to anybody about how he's feeling. Like how he can't breathe when he's alone, how his heart is an open wound, bleeding despair and longing and betrayal. 

'It's nothing.'

'Is it a guy? You can tell me, you know you can tell me anything.'

Zayn was just beginning to find use of his limbs again, regaining his mobility, when the question stops him in his tracks, hand halfway to the knob. 

'It is, isn't it.' Another almost question, meant to be a statement. Zayn feels like he could be sick right then and there. 

'Whoever it is, Zayn, you can't keep being sad about them like this. You deserve better, you know? So much more, and I --," But Zayn doesn't let him finish. 

'Please, stop. I can't talk about this right now.'

But Matt barrels on, having clearly thought about this long and hard, maybe just for today, maybe ever since Zayn came home that Saturday in June, acting like he lost something.

'You need to talk about it, Zayn! You can't just bottle it up, or pretend like it isn't there! You can't binge drink and smoke until you can't think straight, because it's going to keep coming back. You're going to wake up sober and have to feel it all over again. Just tell me, please, just tell me what's wrong.' 

Zayn didn't even listen to the end of his little outburst, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. He felt tears threatening to spill, the itch behind his eyelids his only warning, and he couldn't do this. He couldn't cry, couldn't let Matt be right. Because Zayn was stubborn, and he wasn't ready for him to be right about this. He couldn't let him be right. 

'Matt, please, I just --,' And he pauses to take in a deep breath, to wipe at his eyes until they're dry and no new tears ready to cling to his lashes. He breathes deep, in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to calm himself, trying to get oxygen to his brain so he doesn't pass out. 

Zayn's fingers are trembling, his hands that are usually so steady shaking so hard that he feels like he can barely discern them, and Matt's bigger, stronger ones cover them, try to get them to still. Zayn draws in a sharp breath and looks up, looks into the face that has always been so open and honest, the same face that he didn't want to see hurt, to see sad like it was now. 

Matt is looking at him expectantly, his eyes flickering all over Zayn's face, from his amber hues to his nose, the piercing there, to his mouth. Both of Zayn's hands in one of his, Matt's left comes up to rest against Zayn's newly shaven face, to stroke against his cheek, along the bridge of his nose, over his top lip. He moves closer, the inches between them closing at a snail's pace. 

His lips are only centimeters from Zayn's when there's a knock at the door, and Zayn startles, his heart beating raucously against his ribcage.

Who could be knocking?

Zayn and Matt look at each other, clearly thinking the same thing, but Matt didn't seem ready to move from the position that there were currently in. Zayn takes another deep breath, one to steady his heart rate, before he pulls away from Matt's touch. And Matt lets him, his expression blank, like he didn't quite understand. Zayn knew that he was rejecting him, stepping away to answer the door when Matt was moments from kissing him, and he feels nauseous, that horrible terrible guilt churning in the pit of his stomach all over again. 

He moves towards the front door, slipping by Matt's large frame in the doorway, and he can hear heavy footsteps following after him. Zayn feels like he's hot all over, his skin warming with the idea of what had just been about to happen, what he was sure was going to happen once they discovered who was at the door. Zayn doesn’t dare spare a glance over his shoulder at him, at the boy he could feel hovering, and he instead focuses on opening the door. 

When he does, he nearly collapses, his heart beating against his ribcage so hard he's sure it's trying to burst from his chest, from his body entirely. 

' - Harry?' 

He says his name like a question, even though of course it's him, of course it's Harry. There's no other person it could be, standing there in front of Zayn, boots that look brand new perched on the four year old welcome mat, the one that reads 'Come Back With a Warrant' printed on it in fading black letters. Of course it's Harry, with his windswept hair between his long fingers, pushing it back from his face, his long legs pressed into jeans so tight they could be painted on, wearing a white silk shirt that makes Zayn think of Pirates of the Caribbean. 

Zayn could cry, he's so fucking happy to see him.

'What are you doing here?' He hears his own voice ask, though he's pretty sure that he's incapable of speaking. He's surprised he managed it. 

'I had to see you. I called Jean, and he told me where I could find you. It wasn't here, obviously, I wouldn't have come in the middle of the night, but I looked all over.’ He takes a deep breath, and tugs on the edges of his hair once it’s pushed back from his face. ‘I called Mary, and she said that you were close with Liam, that I could ask him where you lived. I'm sorry for disrupting your evening like this, I really am.'

He can't even begin to remember why he was mad at Harry, or how he had been feeling an inexplicable sadness moments ago. He wasn't thinking about how Harry had abandoned him after what had taken place between them, their bated breaths and their shared kisses, or about Michelle, how Zayn had been nothing but a pretty placeholder until she returned. He didn't think about any of it, didn't care, didn't want anything but Harry. He's just about to tell him that it's fine, that he's been looking for him too, trying to find him everywhere, when he hears Matt's voice speak behind him. 

'Is this him, then?'

It was like Zayn had entirely forgotten that Matt was there, right behind him, his chest practically pressing against Zayn's back. Harry mustn't have noticed him either, his eyes only seeing Zayn, and he visibly startles, his eyes flickering to the source of the deep, unfamiliar voice. 

Zayn feels warmth rush through his cheeks, burning the tops of his ears, and he turns around, pleading hazel eyes trying to say everything his words can't. 

'Matt, please, just.' He could practically hear everything Matt was assuming, his thoughts dangerously loud. 'You don't understand, okay? It's a really long story, and I just --,' 

But it's Zayn's turn to get cut off this time. 

'No, it's fine.' Although Matt's tone says it's everything except fine that Harry's here, that Zayn chose to open the door for him, that he chose Harry at all. Matt smiles, stiff and fake, and brushes Zayn off, his body moving away from him. Zayn doesn't know what he's doing, and he feels hysterical, his breathing coming in raggedly as Matt starts to put on his shoes. 

'Where are you going?'

Matt just shakes his head, finishes pulling on his sneakers, and grabs for his phone and his keys. Zayn feels insane. 

'Matt, stop. Please. Don't go, okay? Where are you going to go? Just stop, please stop.' He pleads, his voice so sad, so desperate, not wanting everything between them to be ruined by a misunderstanding. He doesn't know why Matt's acting like this, or why things suddenly have to change -- he doesn't get why things can't go right for once. 

But Matt does stop, and while Zayn's chest swells with relief, he can tell by the look on Matt's face that the faith that had ballooned inside of him was about to be punctured by reality. 'Okay, I'll stay.' He tells him, eyes more intense than Zayn has ever seen them. 'Tell him to leave, and I'll stay.' 

Zayn's confused at first, his face pinching with misunderstanding, until he realizes who Matt's talking about. He means Harry, he means that Zayn has to tell Harry to go, that Matt wants him to choose him. But Zayn can't do that, can't let Harry get away from him again. He'd been looking, waiting, for so long, the idea of turning Harry away made him feel the need to be physically ill. 

'Matt, I can't, I --,' But he doesn't get the chance to finish before Matt's pushing past him, and then past a bewildered Harry, and Zayn follows after him, stopping at the railing of the stairs to watch Matt as he descends them, to watch him get into his car and peel away without even looking back at Zayn. 

He feels incapable of movement, his fingers frozen to the railing that he grips minutes after Matt had left the apartment. Had left him. He's staring at his empty parking space, trying to will himself to move away, but he can't -- he broke something between them, unintentionally. And for what reason? 

'Zayn, come on. Come inside.' He hears a voice saying, the voice that had been in his dreams endlessly for the whole of summer. 

‘Oh, yeah’ Zayn thinks as Harry takes his hand and leads him back inside, his other hand on the small of Zayn's back. ‘He’s the reason.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know when i'm going to be able to update next but it will be soon!!!! love u and thank u for reading xoxoxo


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